Pain.
For five centuries, Caelan had treated pain as a dull-witted acquaintance. An unwelcome guest who occasionally overstayed, but one he could always, eventually, show the door. Silver was a cold, venomous guest, a creature of ice.
This was fire.
This was a mortal, vulgar, searing agony that had no place in his cold, immortal world. The molten blast hit him like a forge hammer, a sheet of liquid flame that consumed his back. He felt his leather armor sizzle, melt, and fuse with the flesh beneath. The smell of his own burning skin, a grotesque, sacrificial incense, filled his nostrils.
He crashed to the slick tiles, a low, inhuman growl ripped from his throat. The world dissolved into a roaring, red inferno.
"CAELAN!"
Her scream. It was sharper than the fire, colder than the silver that still poisoned the wound in his side. That single, terrified sound cut through the agony, a beacon in the storm. She was safe. He had made it in time.
